Electric Freedom
by Jane McClane
Summary: Only a Gothamite would know... Bruce reflects on his city and the nameless people within it. warning Character death; Dark fic
1. prologue

Disclaimer: I own Nothing!!! (just ask my landlord... 0_o

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Electric Freedom: Prologue

Gotham: centered between New York and Bludhaven. Whereas Las Vegas is the City of Sin, Gotham is the City of the Damned. It has suffered through Depression, plague, disease, gang wars, civil wars, corruption, unending poverty, tragedy… It is always raining here; situated where the Gulf storms meet the Alaskan Downdraft, causing constant cloud cover and darkened hearts. Thunder is its only music and lightning, its only star. The phenomena began during the Gotham Depression. Lost souls, starving children, the abandoned aged, began looking for an escape. It was a myth known only to the truest of Gothamites, the ones who lived in the sewers, ran from their demons, cried in the night, died in silence. It was the end, the noblest of conclusions, Electric Freedom.

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This is just the intro, more to come VERY SOON! Reviews please! This is only my second not quite actually published story...


	2. Annabelle

This is not mine… well except for Annabelle… Enjoy...

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Bruce Wayne did not fit the stereotype of a true Gothamite. He was an irresponsible lad who skipped school to play poker and party with his Brentwood buddies. But it was not true. Bruce cried in the night, and he knew, he knew of The Freedom, he knew perhaps better than anyone.

He will never forget the first time he witnessed it. He left school early cutting through the woods and changing out of his uniform at the opening of the sewer drainage, tangling his way through the tunnels he knew by heart, only to appear forty minutes later in the Warehouse district. Dirty and smelly from his journey, at fifteen he could fit right in with the other children playing baseball in the rain. A metal bat in a thunderstorm not the most brilliant of ideas, but in Gotham, one learns to deal with risks.

She was there every day, a good friend of Rachel's. Annabelle. Annabelle what? Annabelle Nothing, Annabelle Hooker, Annabelle Slut, just Annabelle. She was born in the gutter; she lived in the gutter. A prostitute at nine, pregnant at thirteen, only the third pregnancy survived, and so here she was sitting on the sideline watching her brother play in the rain. Bruce looked over and smiled gently, Annabelle hunched over protecting her child from the torrents of rain. Her dark brown hair clung to her face and water seeped into every pore. Tired hazel met with intense blue. She turned away to nurse her baby, and Bruce turned with naked hand to catch a hit right over the second base garbage can. He missed the ball crashing into the storm pipe and sending water cascading down on his already drenched body. Shrieks of laughter erupted from the other children, and Bruce too, found himself rolling in the agony of mirth. But happiness was cut off by a wail, starting low and increasing in volume and pitch, as horror was realized.

The baby was not breathing. Bruce rushed over, and performed CPR on the tiny human being. Annabelle writhed on the ground, pulling at her hair, as fear and tragedy filled her eyes. She is only seventeen, yet her cries are that of one who has lived beyond their years. Bruce continues to breathe life into the child. The nearest payphone is two blocks away. They would not come anyway. Bruce stops. He holds the baby in his arms, bad milk, malnutrition, exposure, tragedy. Tired hazel meet intense blue. Understanding, acceptance, yet no promise. The acceptance is that of a hopeless, dreamless existence. The acceptance is that of The Freedom. Electric Freedom.

Annabelle grabs her brother's metal bat and runs. Bruce does not stop her; he clutches the baby to his chest. She runs to the side of the condemned building, slipping and stumbling her way up the metal fire escape. The clouds swell as darkness gains. Lightning like strobe lights freeze the image of her torn face. Thunder claps; God can feel her agony. She drops the bat three times on her way. Her throat is dry even in the storm, dry from the screaming. She makes it to the roof, and stands on the edge. Her body quivers, and her hands shake. She waits thirty seconds after the last drum of thunder, then with one last cry thrusts the bat into the air. Lightning crashes and she is visible for only a moment before it is dark again. The street children stand still and do not flinch, not even when they hear the dull thud. In the next flash of lightning Bruce can see her on the ground; the bat is melted to her hands. Bruce stands with the baby in his arms.

The next day Annabelle is in the newspaper. Annabelle, Annabelle Nothing, Annabelle Hooker, Annabelle Slut, just Annabelle, she is in the newspaper. They call it an unusual death. Bruce knows better. Annabelle was born in the gutter, lived in the gutter, but died in the sky. Electric Freedom. It is a tradition in Gotham; one last cry for the nameless, for the hopeless, for the voiceless. Annabelle, just plain, old, seventeen year Annabelle, was in the newspaper.

Bruce stands in the shower and lets the water wash away the city. His dark brown hair clings to his face, the water cascades over his shoulders; he drops the bar of soap three times. He stands directly beneath the hot rain and let's loose a silent scream. Tired blue stare into space.

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So yeah I have really fallen in love with the people of Gotham City themselves... When Bruce showed his absolute Faith that the Gothamites on the boats would make the right decision, it got me to wondering exactly what kind of experiences he had had with them other than Joe Chill... So this was one of the things I came up with. Annabelle made me want to cry... I hape she did the same for you...

More to come… probably three more chapters… REVIEWS PLEASE!!! :)


	3. Walter Delroy

I hope this turned out ok. When I wrote this chapter I was kinda thinking about the song "Stop and Stare" by OneRepublic. It really kinda fits the mood. Enjoy! Only two chapters left! **By the way thanks for the review Jillander-Napier!!!!**

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Bruce stares into the brown liquid. He doesn't want to drink it, but he knows he should. Night will be falling soon, and he is tired. He needs the caffeine, so he tilts back his head and takes a swig. The coffee brings a burning sensation to his throat and mouth but no pleasure. It is the end of July and the heat is stifling. There will be no rain tonight.

He is in a quiet part of town, a street where he can finally disappear. That's all he wants, for once to just disappear. So he takes off his three piece suit and trades it for a black t-shirt and jean jacket. He ruffles his hair, and doesn't shave in the morning. He walks into his city and blends.

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Next to the small coffee shop is a hardware store, owned by one Walter Delroy. He loves his store. He has worked it single handedly since he opened thirty years ago, until recently when he had to hire an assistant. Old age, and now he has taken this young boy, Derek Gaines, under his wing. Six months ago, his store was robbed. A standard stick-em-up, and he was suddenly out two-thousand dollars, and a month recovering from a gunshot wound to the right leg. He is beginning to feel the pinch in his wallet. He survived the Gotham Depression, he made it by on nearly nothing, scraping every last penny, and now some punk with a mask has nearly made him go bankrupt. He remembers filling out the police report. The cop looked bored, told him to hurry up, told him he had somewhere to be. Walter works to hard. Walter is just another face in the crowd. Walter wants to be heard. Walter wants to be remembered. Walter Delroy turns down his shop and hobbles up to his apartment using the cane he will never be rid of.

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Bruce glances out the window. He hears the sound of children laughing. As the sun sets they splash in the water from the fire hydrant, running into the street, jumping in the puddles. To the pedestrians it is a pain, forced to move to the other side of the street to avoid the pressured water streaming from the open pipe. But Bruce remembers the relief it gave as a child.

When Alfred went to see Leslie for the afternoon, he would drop Bruce off at Rachel's small apartment, where she and her mother had moved after Wayne Manor was relieved of its core staff. July was hot then too, and they would run in the street laughing as they soaked in the cold water of the city. He remembers the comforting relief as the water seeped its way beneath his skin. He would watch Rachel, her favorite green t-shirt clinging to her shoulders, causing torrents of water to swell in the fabric. Her wet jeans slap against the pavement, her French-braid made even darker by the water twists around her neck like a serpent, and her head tilts back in a laugh as she drinks in the coolness. It is like a dream. Rachel's mother comes out of the hardware store across the street, and berates them both harshly, but Bruce knows, he can see the amusement behind her eyes.

Bruce smiles fondly, but with cool wetness in his eyes. He tells no one that story. He wants no one intruding into his life. His memories are his memories, and not there for the amusement of others. He doesn't want people to sympathize with him. He just wants to be left alone. But… he wants to hear that laugh again.

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Walter holds onto the bar of his shower struggling to lift his old bones into the tub. He curses this heat wave. He is too tired to shower, but too hot to not do so. The cold water is a shock to his tired body, but he drinks it in anyway. He makes it colder. He wants his hand to go numb. He wants his knee to stop aching. He feels the weight on his shoulders. After the robbery his insurance went up, then a month later there was a knock on his door. A dangerous town they said, need better insurance they said, hate for anything else to go bad they said. So Walter emptied out his retirement fund, and paid the men. A month later they were back again. Crime has gone up they said, you're in more danger than ever they said, something bad might happen they said, give us your money they said.

He said no.

The next morning his assistant Derek was found strung up like a Christmas turkey. What a shame they said.

Walter's feet slip and he falls onto the hard tile. He bites his lip. He can't hold in the tears of physical pain and emotional frustration. He can't stay afloat. He has no one to hold onto. No one even knows he exists. No one will ever know. The shower remains on. Trails of liquid leak down his face. It chokes in his mouth; he shakes it out of his ears. He hates it. Its water becomes ice cold. The downpour hides Walter Delroy's tears.

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The waitress comes over to refill Bruce's coffee cup. She doesn't recognize him, so he smiles: a real smile, a free smile. She doesn't know him. Thank you he says. She blushes, you're welcome she says. Her shyness reminds him of Rachel when they first met at age four. She didn't know who he was. She didn't care who he was. She just smiled that quiet smile. He thought she couldn't talk, but she was just waiting to pounce. She put her finger in her mouth. He thought it was gross, she still sucks her fingers. Then without warning, she plucked it from her mouth and jammed it in his ear. With a shriek of surprise and embarrassment, Bruce tumbled over backward. Rachel grinned mischievously. He did not know her. She did not know him, but for once he wanted to tell someone everything.

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Walter Delroy is asking the question. Why? Why did he close the store tonight? Why did he open the store thirty years ago? Why is he taking this shower? Will anybody notice the difference? No. He is alone. No one will remember his name. He has no one to tell it to. He just wants to be remembered by someone other than the IRS. Yes. They know his name. He is on a list, The List. He was desperate. He didn't report all his earnings. He had the mob after him! What was he supposed to do? He hid it in the wall, but somehow they found out. They would be coming for him soon. All he wanted was to be remembered. All he wanted was to leave his mark. But this city had worn him down to nothing but brittle bone, and depression.

Walter got out of the shower, putting on his clothes without even drying. He moved back down to his store leaving his cane behind. He made his way through his merchandise, grabbing a pair of huge wire cutters.

He was on the roof. He reached over to the building next door, a coffee shop, and cut the wires leading to both businesses. The spray from the fire hydrant had drenched the roof, and he merely had to stand in the icy water and wait for the line to drop.

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The waitress came to pour Bruce another coffee, when the lights went out. The hot liquid landed on his lap and the waitress let out a small curse. He told her it was alright, and looked outside. The whole block was out of power. Bruce paid for his drink leaving the girl a very large tip and moved outside. The kids across the street had stopped splashing. They had stopped doing anything at all. One small boy tugged on his sleeve.

"Mr., that man up there…" He pointed to the roof. A still smoking corpse leaned over the roof. Walter Delroy had found electric freedom. The punk, the mob, the IRS, had all lost. He had won. Bruce yells for someone to call the police, as he moves to secure the downed wire. But he is pushed through the crowd as more people gather, and no one will listen to him, only stare in wonder. As Bruce is forgotten, Walter Delroy is remembered. And no one will ever forget.

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...REVIEW!!!


	4. Anna Ramirez

**Yeah I know, six months... but here it is... hope you're aren't too mad at me at me to read it**. **But only one chapter left after this. Thanks for the reviews!**

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Bruce straddles the Bat-pod, pavement racing beneath him. One more night. One more night, he tells himself. If he could just hold on for one more night, maybe then he could move on. Bruce shifts gears, and the core of the pod almost hits the ground. He can almost feel the curb mere inches from his knee as he makes a sharp left turn. He is almost home, or at least almost back to the warehouse. He can feel his bones shift as he balances himself. Some bones move, others move in pieces. He can feel the cracked ribs grinding against each other. He can feel the warm blood soaking through his charcoal undershirt. Relief wells inside his chest he can see it up ahead, an ominous structure of steel and garbage, just a few more yards.

The squeal of sirens reaches his ears. He turns his head, thankful to Lucius that he can. A new feeling replaces relief. Dread. He dreads that they will catch him one day. He dreads that they will take his identity from him. He dreads he may bleed to death. But at the moment he dreads having to speed by what was to be his safe haven. He cannot stop. He has to lose the police first. So the blood keeps flowing and Bruce roars past home, back out into the night.

It's hard being an innocent man with a guilty name.

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Her car picks up speed when she glimpses him in the light ahead. She can hear the smooth sound of acceleration, cut short by the high pitched screech of burning rubber on a sharp turn. The Chevy groans under the exertion, and for one breath taking moment the engine stutters, but by the time the car straightens, the front wheel well missing the curb by mere inches, the engine is back, roaring down the street in the pursuit.

"Damn it Ramirez! Here in Gotham City the rules of gravity still apply! Even for you, hero." Crispus Allen spat at the windshield, his white knuckled hand grasping the dashboard.

"It's called 'on the job risks Chris, and I told you not to call me that!" Anna's voice was grating and angry, though much of that came from the adrenalin of the chase, and not her partners sarcastic complaints.

"Oh come on Anna, you've played the hero cop ever since you were the first on the scene when Batman murdered Dent. Admit it you wear the badge well." Chris leaned back in his seat, his voice a mixture of both annoyance and a hint of jealousy. Anna on the other hand bit the inside of her cheek until her saliva was mixed with copper. She tried valiantly to hold back the tears. It was true. She had been first on the scene. Everyone knew she had rushed to the scene. Everyone knew she had tried valiantly to bring Harvey Dent back to life. Everyone knew she had been the one to hold little Barbara Gordon, as her parents tried to stop little Jim from breaking to pieces. Everyone knew she was a hero. Everyone knew.

Anna knew differently. Anna knew that the only reason she was on the scene so fast was because she hadn't had a chance to leave after handing the Gordons over to Harvey. Anna knew that every time she leant down to breath into Harvey she had held her breath. Anna knew that if little Babs had come out of her terrified stupor, she would have looked up into the eyes of her kidnapper. Anna knew that she was evil, that she was a villain, that she deserved to die. It made her want to scream. It made her want to hit Chris. No, it made her want to rip off her badge and shove it down his throat. No, it made her want to shove it down her own throat. She had to take off her badge.

"I hear you're getting a better badge, Sergeant. I have to say you've earned it, even if you did a 180 on the whole Batman thing. Congratulations, Anna." Allen's irritation had dissolved into sincerity. It made Anna want to choke on her tongue, to bite it off before the reply slipped from her mouth.

"I was just doing my job." It was the same thing she had told Jim's wife. The very same thing she told her as she shoved an innocent woman and her children onto the hard cold floor of the half burned warehouse office. I was just doing my job. Doing my job. My job. Her new job was to catch the Bat. Gordon had her head the task force, because he knew she knew the truth. The Batman was innocent, and Jim knew that she was guilty. He told her that maybe watching the Bat sacrifice, would teach her right from wrong. Punishment; the guilty damned to chasing the innocent. He kept her on because he had no choice, because cops were few and far between now. Because he'd rather have to know where she stands and work with her dirt, than have to work with someone whom he knows nothing about. His wife didn't understand that. She's gone now. Took the kids with her. Chris keeps talking as she, the hero, keeps chasing the condemned.

It's hard to live in guilty, when you wear the badge of a hero.

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Bruce diverts down onto the parkway, hoping to mount the curb, leaving the cops stuck in traffic. A cab pulls up to the side and its passenger opens the door. Bruce aggressively veers to the right in order to avoid him, the sudden movement jarring his already ravaged side. White spots cloud his vision with the explosion of pain. He strains to hear past the ringing in his ears to catch the police radio report, an armed robbery in progress one block over. He sees the unmarked Chevy behind him turn abruptly down a side street. One down, two cruisers to go. Bruce makes a few more maneuvers, but has yet to affectively lose them. He can feel his focus beginning to slip.

He hates being in the public eye. He always has. To be judged by a picture and a paragraph, for people to make conjectures based on the ill-assumed opinions of some critic or columnist. He knew he would sacrifice a lot in his crusade to create his urban legend, but he never thought he would have to sacrifice his own name. At every turn he found himself having to take more and more drastic steps in order to cover his tracks. But he hadn't just sacrificed his name. He sacrificed his father's. It was a heavy burden, the weight of which he hid well. 'Did you hear what Bruce did last night?' 'Did I ever!' 'No one with good breeding would ever be found in such a status!' 'Indeed.' Or, 'I hear it runs in the family, after all everyone knows Mr. Earl ran the company for Thomas.' 'Yes he was much too busy gallivanting around the city to pay an attention to the business.' 'Or to that nurse-maid he kept as his wife.' His father's legacy reduced to ash in the wake of what was his son's supposed moral failings.

Bruce wishes people would leave him alone. He never meant to be famous.

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Anna Ramirez steps out of the car, followed closely by Crispus Allen. She had diverted from the chase, giving orders to the other patrolmen to keep following but not to engage. Maybe they would tire the Batman out. Maybe he would surrender. Maybe that damn car-bike-thingy would run out of frickin gas. Maybe Anna's just crazy. She reaches up and grabs her neck as a patrolman steps up to get her up to speed on the robbery now turned hostage situation. The uniform gladly hands control of the situation over to her, the hero.

It's funny, Anna always wanted to be famous. Growing up on the East-side, he father working in the steel plants, her mother a third-shift waitress with 'other duties.' She grew up tough, but anonymous. She knew what she wanted. She wanted to be famous for more than a lewd sneer and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. _'You ain't never gonna be nuthin..'_ he would slur through the filth in his mouth. So she left. The National Guard at eighteen, a degree in Criminal Justice at twenty, and a badge at twenty-one, now the head of major crimes under the supervision of Commissioner Gordon. When she was a kid her name wouldn't even make the obituaries, now it was in section A every day.

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Maybe this was a bad idea. What good did it do it preserve the name of a dead man, by tearing apart the name of a living man? He'd never be able to work effectively again. He may not have to. He was losing a lot of blood, and he just couldn't seem to shake those cops. Bruce once again tried to lose them with a sharp turn, but a cop on a motorcycle kept hot pursuit, radioing in their position to the rest of the cars.

Bruce didn't set out looking to be a hero, so why was he so disappointed?

"Pull the barricade back another fifty!" Anna's voice resounded through the street. Officers snapped into action. "Chris, you and me, the roof access. Let's end this." Anna grabbed his arm and began moving around to the side of the building.

"Anna that's crazy! We can't just storm the building! There are at least five gunmen and a dozen hostages. Best we get isn't even close to a happy ending." What Chris said was true, but God help her, Anna didn't care. She was going to earn that title if it killed her. She was going to be a hero for real. That way it wouldn't hurt so much. But she had to have Chris's help. She slammed him against the fire escape.

"Damn it Chris! I need you beside me! I need you to trust me. You know I've got your back…" The fight left her voice making way for the sincerity to keep through.

"Yeah, I trust you." She looks into his eyes and knows that he does. He has unshakable faith in her. They're partners, he trusts her with his life. It cuts her like a knife. She has to hold her breath, as they make their way up the fire escape.

She always wanted to be a hero, so why is she so disappointed?

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The bike skids across the ground. He can feel the flesh being torn off his knee. The front clips a passing car sending him spinning over onto the sidewalk. He's under. He's over. He's under. He's over. The brick wall is the only thing that stops the bike's rotations. He doesn't even remember why he crashed. One second he was going straight down the street. The next he was eating pavement. Bruce pulls himself from beneath the wreckage, and stands on unsteady feet. It's then that he sees the spike strips. He must be worse off than he thought. Not only did he not see them, but he was predictable enough for the cops to even get them in place.

Bullets ricochet off the wall, and he simply falls to the ground to avoid them. Dragging himself into the alley, he tries to find a route out. All he cares about is getting back to Alfred, sleep, never seeing blue and red lights ever again.

Bruce wearily pulls himself up the fire escape, wishing he could just fade into obscurity.

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"You take the two by the hostages, while I cover the three behind the counter." Chris and Anna move into position. Anna brings her gun up level and shoots the first man to her right. It catches him in the head. The second bullet hits the shoulder of the second man. The third drops his gun and raises his hands.

Chris takes out both his targets with two bullets in quick succession. He knows they got lucky. These guys were simply completely unprepared for them. He reaches down to untie the hands of the nearest hostage. A small boy about five, his tear stained eyes meet Chris's steel ones.

There's a sharp retort, and blood flies across the face of the child. He starts crying.

"Chris!" Anna turns in horror, firing at the sixth gunman who appeared from the open vault. She is tackled from behind by the man she was subduing. They wrestle on the ground. Three shots are fired from her gun, and she hits him with the only thing she has left. Three hits and the butt of her gun is as red as the blood that now covers her hands. She crawls from beneath the body and shakily moves over to Chris. She clamps her hands down over the hole in his chest. His blood is added to the blood already staining her hands. It is then that she notices that two of the hostages are in a similar state. She wonders when, then the horror hits her. Her gun.

"No, God NO!" Her face contorts in agony as she realizes she has more blood on her hands than she could have believed. She sits there holding her dead partner, until a uniform forcibly pulls her away. She can't stop screaming. She wants to scream everything. Her stupid father, her dead mother, her deal with the devil, they all disserve to know, but all that comes out is the sound of indecipherable horror.

Later she sits on the bumper of an ambulance. They are asking her questions, but she isn't answering. She stands and heads for her car. The uniform tries to get her to stop. It doesn't work. She's decided. She can't live in the flames of hell, but maybe she can die in a blaze of glory.

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Bruce has kept up the odd pattern roof top travel creates, for an hour. The sound of sirens has finally faded. He trips over an air vent and slumps to the ground. Leaning against the edge of the roof, he glances over his shoulder. It's there. The warehouse, he made it. He can see his blood shining in the moonlight. But he doesn't care. Alfred will take care of it now. He stumbles down the staircase and makes his way to the shipping container entrance. His breath is quick and his footsteps heavy. He leans against the door and it takes all of his might to push up the latch. He stumbles in and leans against the wall. His labored breathing echoes off the steel walls. He fumbles in the dark for the switch, and he can hear the low hum of the hydraulics as the steel panel slides across the entrance and the platform begins to lower.

In just moments he will have solitude.

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Anna is numb as she drives into the warehouse district. It's over. There is nothing left to do. The fight has left her and she couldn't care less. Now all she wants is escape from this madness. She wants peace. She wants everyone to know she has found solitude.

Her car rams through the front gate of Gotham Water and Power. If she looked behind her she would see the night watchman scrambling after her. But her eyes are ahead of her. She heads straight for the main power conductor. She places the pedal to the floor. Her car smashes through a wall of electrical fire power. She never even feels the white hot blaze, hears the high pitched release of energy, see the entire warehouse district go dark. She has found her solitude in Electric Freedom.

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Bruce watches the crack of light form by his feet. One inch, then two, five inches, then it plunges into darkness. The elevator's thrum comes to a halt. Six inches. He calls out to Alfred. Somewhere in the dark comes the reply.

"Master Bruce!" He hears Alfred dragging something heavy, a chair, across the floor to the elevator. He stands on it, reaching his hand through the crack. Somewhere in the back of his mind Bruce thinks. He thinks it might have been a wise idea to have a disconnected generator in case of a power surge. But that's not important now. The steel door is shut fast and he can't fit through a six inch gap. He can feel Alfred's hand grab his own in the darkness. He knows his glove is slick with blood. Alfred takes off the glove. The human contact brings warmth.

"S'okay…" Bruce slurs, trying to bring comfort to his surrogate father. "Just need to rest for a moment…" Bruce lays his head back on the cold metal, and listens contentedly to Alfred's choked words of comfort. He likes that Alfred knows his name.

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